This Mess Was Yours
by Pikapegasus
Summary: "Old sport" meant nothing more than a simple pet term to the gentlemen sitting behind me, just a phrase used between friends for friends in casual conversation. Jay Gatsby didn't immediately come to their minds at the two words. They didn't know Jay Gatsby as I had. (Epilogue to 'The Great Gatsby,' from Nick's POV.)


**A/N:** This is an epilogue to the novel, from Nick's point of view.

* * *

 _Old sport._ I hadn't heard those words in a long time. I just happened to catch it in passing, on my escape via railroad from the big, bright city of New York. A gentleman behind me on the train had used the address casually in conversation with the passenger sitting beside him.

Those two words would always remind me of him - Jay Gatsby, the dreamer, the soldier, the richest man on Earth. His parties, which were notorious for their sheer volume of attendees, and endless amounts of entertainment. His house, the only thing grander than his parties.

His history, more painfully complicated than a normal person would realize.

"Old sport" meant nothing more than a simple pet term to the gentlemen sitting behind me, just a phrase used between friends for friends in casual conversation. Jay Gatsby didn't immediately come to their minds at the two words. They didn't know Jay Gatsby as I had.

I was on my way home to Minnesota, because I had had enough of the big city. It wasn't meant for me. At the mention of it, I thought of grand celebrations, filled to the brim with brightly colored people and decorations. I pictured Jordan Baker, in her elegant evening dresses at the events we attended together, giving a side smile as she talked of Gatsby's hopelessly romantic past. I thought of Daisy, and her seemingly forced naivety of everyone and everything around her. I doubted she was as innocent as she tried to convey herself as in front of men, specifically Tom and Gatsby.

"Old sport." A hand was suddenly tapping my shoulder, pulling me from my reverie. The owner of the gentle appendage looked apologetic, and nothing like the person I was expecting to see when I heard the words, "old sport."

"Can I help you?" I managed, discarding the expectations of Gatsby to be resurrected on the train with me.

The gentleman blinked, looking surprised by my reaction. "Your bag fell off of the seat and onto the floor. Did you not notice?"

I bore an expression that probably mirrored his, I thought, as I turned to look down beside me. Sure enough, my bag was next to my foot, sitting motionless in the aisle, some of the contents having spilled out.

I hadn't even noticed it fell, as the gentleman had suggested. Jay Gatsby just had that effect on people - he completely took their breaths away, with his riches and parties aplenty. Even post-mortem, his mesmerizing effects still lingered, apparently.

"Oh. Sorry," I casually murmured as I leaned over at a sharp angle, gathering my bag and its spilled contents. It was a bit embarrassing.

"You should pay more attention to things," the gentleman advised, exasperated at my odd and possibly naive behavior. "If you don't, life will just pass you by, and you won't even realize it."

I glanced over at the passenger sitting beside this gentleman, seated at the window, who was paying our conversation no attention. He appeared just as engaged in the passing scenery as his companion in this conversation.

"I think I would realize," I protested, disagreeing with this unprecedented advice. "I am not _that_ helpless."

The stranger didn't appear fazed by my reply, though it contrasted from his opinion. He simply adjusted his hat, and leaned back in his cushioned chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. The passenger was still watching the passing blurs of greens and blues, namely the fields and sky, respectively.

"That's what a lot of people think," my conversational partner finally decided, his beady olive eyes meeting mine with a steady gaze. "Then, once they reach the ends of their lives, they realize they were wrong in assuming that."

I frowned, briefly, wondering if Gatsby died in such a way. Surely, he had died with _some_ things on his mind - his life had come to an untimely end, so he was bound to have some form of regrets or expectations he never got to remedy.

He never did get to make that call to Daisy.

"Then, how may I tell if I am giving life my full attention right now?" I inquired, genuinely curious to know if the gentleman's judgment was accurate.

"You take advantage of all opportunities, you know what you are doing and where you are going," he replied, without missing a beat.

He was so confident, I deduced he spoke from experience. Perhaps he had known Gatsby, in a way - perhaps this gentleman had known someone _like_ Gatsby, who dreamed so hard for so long, but died before achieving what he had been reaching for. What an awful way to go.

Where do we, who remain on the sidelines while the dreamers die, stand, then? I was running from what the dreamer in my life had left behind. I inquired about this next.

"What about running? What does your philosophy say of fleeing from those who have only caused you grief?"

I was running from Jordan, Daisy, and Tom, though those the two final names were already well on their way to running away themselves before I was leaving. They were cowards. Daisy herself was not unlike a fearsome, female spider - a black widow, I believe they're called - despite her innocent appearance; she charmed others, used them to their full potential, and then discarded them to be walked upon by the rest of the world. Tom was no better, and operated in a similar fashion, though more aggressively and openly than the soft-spoken, sweet Daisy.

Why was Gatsby so enthralled with her, still, after all of these years, after the way she had treated him before his death?

The stranger licked his lips thoughtfully before answering my inquiry. "It means you want your life to go in a different direction, one with less factors involved that will cause you to lose control."

There was truth in that statement, I reflected. I couldn't control the actions of Gatsby, or Daisy, or Tom, or Jordan - I was just _there._ I just witnessed the fall-out, the collapse of a man solely at the memory of a girl he once knew and loved, as she had once known and loved him.

But, then she found someone else, and cast Gatsby aside as if he were nothing.

This world is too _cruel_ sometimes.

Suddenly, the train was slowing, gradually coming to a stop at its next station. I still had a few to go to reach my stop, but it appeared my new philosophical friend was leaving.

He stood and exited his row carefully, allowing his companion to walk around and ahead of him down the aisle, toward the exit. He then retrieved his bag from underneath his seat, and tipped his hat to me with a polite expression.

"I wish you luck on your flight from the past, old sport," he offered.

"Thank you," I replied, diplomatically. "I wish you luck in your own affairs."

The stranger gave an amicable nod, before turning and following his friend down the aisle. I waved after him a little, my fingers twitching from the emotional onslaught I felt at the resurrected thoughts of Gatsby.

Soon enough, the train resumed motion, leaving from this station, and heading to the next. So I, too, resumed motion, focusing on the future, with the troubles of the past just out of reach trailing behind me.

* * *

 **A/N:** I wrote this for a school assignment, haha, but I thought I'd share it here. Let me know what you all think. :D Title taken from "Mess is Mine" by Vance Joy.


End file.
